


When The Universe Circled You and Me

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:00:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days are good, some days are bad, and some days are wretched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Universe Circled You and Me

Harry watched as the train stopped in front of him and the doors opened; the voice on the intercom from inside droning, “Mind the gap”. It was the third train to come into the station, and it would be the third one he’d let pass. He watched as people traded places, a kind of awkward dance between those boarding and those departing. A young boy with bright blue headphones helped an exhausted woman with a stroller, the baby asleep and oblivious to the jostling. He looked up at the clock: 3:24. He could miss two more trains before he would be late.

He promised he would meet Zayn at 5:15, because Louis would be gone by then. The last thing Harry needed was for him to see his perpetual tear-streaked face and his fingernails bitten down to bloodied nubs. He was miserable, but he didn’t want Louis to know that. Zayn knew, but Zayn knew everything. He may have become Louis’s roommate, but he had always been Harry’s best friend and the loyalty to Harry was understood before he even moved in (an ignored burst pipe can lead to severe mold damage, who knew?) a few weeks after things ended. Zayn was there for Harry at all hours of the night, even when he had to be awake at 6am for work. He was the first person Harry called when it happened, and he was the only person who knew when he didn’t hear from Harry for nine hours, it was time for intervention. Zayn knew, and Zayn understood. Harry wasn’t sure if he understood because that was just the kind of person he was, or because he had been through the exact same thing with Perrie the year before. Harry picked at a mangled cuticle as the next train pulled up, standing up to finally board.

He took a seat at the end of the car, turned his music up. He had 10 stops to prepare himself for what would happen; the retrieval of the final box of items he had left at their flat. Louis’s flat. Louis’s and Zayn’s flat, as it were now. He clearly didn’t need anything in the box, and Zayn would have brought it to him, but he knew he had to go and retrieve it himself. He knew it was the only way he could get the closure he needed. He closed his eyes and let The 1975 become his only thoughts.  


When he finally arrived at the High Barnet stop, “yeah you wanna find love then you know where the city is" was on a constant loop in his brain. He turned the music down and focused on the task ahead. The sun was starting to set, and there was a chill in the air that made him wrap his arms around himself. He walked the five blocks from the tube station to his old flat. It hadn’t even been two months yet, but the seasons had started to change, and the entire scenery looked foreign. As if he hadn’t done this walk a million times before. He ran his hand over the intercom system, paused over his old flat number. He buzzed and Zayn let him in without ever coming on the intercom. Harry knew he was at the front window, watching. Waiting. Betting. This was the third attempt he had made to collect his box. Each time he canceled on Zayn, over text, the standard text back was, “When you’re ready. The box is in the closet. Maybe next time?” Third time’s the charm, he supposed.

He hit the button on the lift and waited, drummed his fingers against his thighs, his nervous energy threatening to lead his exhausted body back to the tube. The doors opened and he looked up to see Zayn in the lift. Zayn pulled him in, wrapped him up. He was tinier than Harry, but his hugs always dwarfed him, made him feel safe, secure. Protected. He didn’t have that anymore but knowing his friend was a constant made it easier somehow. Zayn pushed the “9” button and they rode together silently, Zayn petting Harry’s hair as he slumped against his shoulder.

Louis worked at a coffeeshop by the flat; he applied solely because of a painting of a fox he had seen through the window. Harry used to spend Wednesday nights there; open mic night. Louis would practice new concoctions and use Harry as a guinea pig. This was the seventh Wednesday Harry wasn’t there, listening to their friends Ed and Niall play to a small crowd, trying a new drink, often choking it down with a piece of banana nut bread. Only half of the drinks Louis made were ever any good; but no matter how awful, Harry always entertained him. He loved to see his boy’s eyes light up, the crinkles in the corners deepening with each compliment. Harry knew Louis would rather have Zayn’s job, teaching kids, but those jobs were scarce and at least he still had interaction with people, had an outlet for his creativity. Harry would have drunk a million awful cups of coffee to keep those blue eyes shining. He was brought back to reality as the lift dinged on their floor, and Zayn led the way to the door.  


“How’s Niall?” Bless him for attempting small talk. Harry bit the inside of his cheek, so hard he was sure it would start bleeding. He stumbled over the throw rug right in front of the door, the nine-million, eight-hundred and twelfth time that happened. Louis brought it home from a second-hand store across from the coffeeshop one day in November. It was green and yellow and completely out of place. But that was during the week Harry decided he loved the Green Bay Packers, and went so far as to tattoo their logo on his arm (and if he was drunk when it happened, so what). Zayn followed Harry’s glance down and clucked. “Do you want that? He didn’t pack it, but I reckon you could have it if you wanted…?”

Harry waved his hand. “No. It’s fine. And Niall’s great. He’s at Ellie’s most of the time, so it’s as if I live alone.” The words left his mouth before he could think about the weight they held. He closed his eyes, swallowed the lump in his throat, down, down down.

He lived with Niall now. He called him after it had been decided he would be the one to move out. Louis must have texted him, because on the second ring, he answered and said, “The spare room is all set up for you, mate!” As if this was a joyous occasion. Niall never did know how to handle sadness. Throw on a smile and grab a pint and what was there to be sad about? Niall did go so far as to skip the first Wednesday open mic after Harry moved in, but mostly because he wasn’t sure Harry wouldn’t stick his head in the oven.

On the second Wednesday, Niall had the decency to ask if he could still go, as he could never pick sides in a situation like this. “Of course”, Harry had answered quietly, hoped his eyes conveyed the sincerity he knew his voice couldn’t. Niall pulled him into a bear hug, rested his hand on the back of Harry’s head. “I’ll be back by 10, and we’ll go out?”

He came back at 6:30 the next morning, stumbled into bed with Harry, nuzzled his cold nose against Harry’s neck. “I forgot. I forgot you were sad and Ellie smelled great and I’m sorry I forgot.”

Zayn didn’t forget and Harry loved him for that. He never pushed, but he was a presence that Harry didn’t know he even needed until late one night when he rolled over to wrap his arms around Louis only to find he wasn’t there. He woke with a start, panicked for a moment before remembering what his life was now. It was 3am and he knew Zayn had to be up soon to teach young minds about Hawthorne or Shakespeare but it was second nature to text him. Zayn came over and he sat silently as Harry drenched his hoodie with tears and snot. He traced patterns on his back, smoothed his hand through his hair, and offered no words because there were no words to soothe the ache inside Harry’s chest. And they both knew it.

Harry didn’t even realize he was crying until Zayn had crowded behind him, his head rested between Harry’s shoulder blades, arms wrapped around his waist. “It’s pretty awful”, he whispered tearfully. “It gets better though, yeah? You’re doing fine, right?”

Zayn nodded his head. “Yeah. Some days are good, some days are bad, and some days are wretched. But you just keep putting one foot in front of the other, you know? Sometimes only until you get to the pub, or the couch, but you just keep moving. Time really does help, though. Distance, too.” Perrie’d since moved to Glasgow with a bloke named Kenneth. Harry kept in touch with her, random texts now and again. Their falling-out was a bit more intense than Harry and Louis’s, but the fact that Zayn could say things were better, and seem like he meant it, made Harry hopeful.

Zayn carried the box down the hall, handed it to Harry as he got in the lift. “I’ll be round Nialler’s this weekend. Maybe on Sunday? I’ll bring takeaway.” The boys hugged one last time as Harry balanced the box and hit the button. Zayn saluted him as the doors shut, and Harry slid to the floor. The ride down seemed much longer than the ride up, but Harry didn’t even remember that. He hefted his box into his arms and headed towards the tube station, trying hard not to think of how he felt the last time he took this walk with belongings in hand.

*****  
When he got back to Niall’s, Harry sat on the living room floor and began picking through the box. All the essentials were packed in the initial move; all of the non-essentials came two weeks later when Zayn needed the spare bedroom. Harry knew this particular box was all the things he never wanted to see. The contents of the box were the summation of a five-year relationship Harry still couldn’t quite grasp had ended.

He opened the box, and the smell of grapefruit invaded his senses. Inside was a candle that Louis had bought one day because he HAD to have it. Grapefruit was his favorite scent, but Harry never much cared for it. He smiled as he remembered the drama that ensued after Louis had brought the candle home and lit it in the guest room. It was forgotten until hours later when Harry was three fingers deep and Louis, eyes rolled in the back of his head, came to and yelled, “Grapefruit!” It became an inside joke after that. He wondered why it was with his things.

Further down in the box was a photo album, made for them by Zayn one Christmas. The album was leather-bound, and reminded Harry of the masterpieces he would spend hours reading at the bookstore. He could never in a million years afford them, but he would sit in the back corner, tucked up in a chair, and would read for hours. His favorite part about the books was the way they felt in his hands; solid, firm. Protected. Each book was different in message, of course, but they all held the same theme. Louis never understood the appeal, the significance. Louis didn’t understand a lot about him, he realized.

Harry flipped through the photo album, looking through it for the first time in years. There were pictures from when he and Louis first got together. Harry, all gangly limbs and bright eyes; Louis, soft and warm. They went to university together; pictures of them at parties, in Harry’s dorm, in the flat they rented together Harry’s senior year, a little place right off campus just a bit bigger than a shoebox. Their eyes were full of hearts, smiles full of love. Harry wondered if it had changed for Louis, because it felt like it somehow changed for him.

They met in a Philosophy class. Louis was simply fulfilling a requirement but Harry was in heaven. Harry remembered watching him stroll in five minutes before class started, sit in the back, throw his hood over his head and slouch in his seat. The second week of class, he went over to him, sat next to him. “This is my favorite course” He whispered once in the middle of a particularly riveting lecture on superposition. Harry watched as the boy’s eyes narrowed on him and he whispered back, “You’re mental, mate. This is torture.” Three years later when Harry brought home a tiny little tabby from the shelter, Louis held it to his chest and said, “Welcome home, Schrodinger. We promise there’s no poison here.”

He suddenly felt incredibly tired. He laid the photo album back in the box, carried it to his room, and set it gently on the closet floor. He made a mental note to search for the lighter fluid when he woke from his nap.

*****  
Harry looked over the scribbled grocery list Niall had given him. Lists could only be made after Niall had eaten, otherwise shopping took two hours and Harry refused to have a cart full of sweets and frozen chicken tenders. He pushed the cart down the spices aisle, tried to make out the requirements needed for the last barbecue of the season. “How does he even know about cumin? He gets a grill and suddenly he’s Jamie Oliver?” He asked aloud, exasperated. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Louis by the dairy. His hood was on, and Harry could see he was wearing his glasses. He rarely wore his glasses during the day. Harry wondered if this was a regular thing. He wondered if Louis would spot him. He panicked, instinctively tried to hide himself with his beanie. He grabbed the spices, whipped his cart around, and all but sprinted to the check-out.

On the tube ride back to Niall’s, he debated texting Zayn, see if Louis mentioned seeing him at the grocery store. But did he care? Did it matter? It had been three months since he had seen him. Three months since he had left his keys on the coffee table and left. He had discovered Louis hadn’t even attempted to apply for any teaching positions that had opened over the summer, his resume document having been left untouched since February. Harry was tired of feeling like he was the only one striving for his dreams, he was tired of constantly encouraging and prodding and at the end flat-out doing it all for Louis.

When he asked why he hadn’t applied, Louis shrugged and said, “I’m happy where I’m at right now.” The way he answered it so flippantly was the final straw for Harry. He didn’t understand how Louis could be content working a menial job doing mind-numbing repetitive work while he busted his hump working 50+ hours a week at the art gallery. He was living his dream, and he was angry Louis had stopped striving to live his. He didn’t want to sit and watch it any longer. So he left.

That night, after tearfully retelling the story of the traumatic near-encounter, Niall decided enough time had passed for Harry to start going out. Harry wasn’t in agreement, but he was promised it would just be the LIC, and if he didn’t want to talk to a single other person, he didn’t have to. That sounded like an acceptable tradeoff.

But after five pints, Harry had one specific person he absolutely had to talk to. And it most certainly was not the lad he had just sucked off in the toilets ten minutes prior; Nick, maybe? He waited until Niall left the table to have a dance-off with Eoghan, and he slipped out the door, headed toward the tube station.

He watched a young couple sat across from him. The man whispered in his girl’s ear, she laughed and hit him playfully in the chest. The fondness in their eyes and in their touches made Harry angry. He held his hand over his mouth to keep the vomit in, to keep from spewing all over their stupid happiness. He wanted to tell them it wasn’t worth it; that it would end in disappointment and sadness. He wanted to save them the heartache. But he mostly wanted to vomit and ruin their night.

He got off at his stop, stumbled his way to his destination. In the dark, the walk was just how he remembered it. He ran his entire hand over the intercom system, repeated it until someone finally buzzed him in. He tripped his way to the lift, tripped his way off when he got to his floor. He knocked on the door, his giant fists creating a symphony, until it flew open with a “What the fuck?”.  
Harry was face-to-face with Louis for the first time in three months.

“Remember that time when you brought home skimmed milk even though I like whole but I still drank it? Remember that? I do. I remember.” He swayed against the doorframe, his words soft and mumbled.

Louis blinked. “I…Harry, what are you doing here?”

He pushed past him, stumbled over the Packer rug. “You were buying milk today at Sainsbury’s. I was buying cumin, you were buying milk. I buy the milk, Lou. I’m in charge of the groceries,  _and I buy the milk._ ” He could hear his phone buzzing in his pocket; no doubt Niall, finally realizing he’d pulled a Houdini. It took over an hour to get to the flat from the pub.

Louis sat on the couch. “H, I don’t know what you want from me. But you should probably leave. Can you get home? Shall I call you a cab? Where were you? How did you get here?” He stopped when he realized he didn’t much care for the answers. “You need to go home.”

Harry walked over, sat on the coffee table so his knees were touching Louis’s. “This is my home. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t want to live with Niall anymore, I want to come home. Can I come home?” He grabbed Louis’s face in his hands. “I’m not mad anymore, I don’t care. I’m not mad. Okay? If you’re happy, I’m happy. You can work at the coffeshop forever and I’ll come on Wednesdays and drink your awful coffee drinks forever. I want that, I want it back.” He leaned in to kiss him, but was pulled back onto the coffee table by Zayn, who had come out of his bedroom, coat and phone in hand.

“Harry, I’m going for pizza. Do you want to come?” He finished pounding out a text, pocketed his phone. “We’ll go to the place by Niall’s, you know that new place? You can get sweet corn on your half. And then Niall will take you home, yeah? C’mon.” He grabbed Harry under the arms and pulled him up. Louis slipped past them towards his room.

Harry tried to escape out of Zayn’s grasp. “No, I have to talk to Louis.” His words came out slurred and desperate. “I’m not mad anymore, Zayn. I’m not mad, he can forgive me now. He can buy skimmed milk, I won’t even care. He can work wherever he wants as long as he’s happy. I just want him happy. Okay? Can you go tell him that? I’ll sit right here and wait. Go-go tell him. Louis!” He struggled against Zayn’s tight grip. “Lou, did you hear me! Louis!”

Zayn dragged him out the door, like a firefighter with an unconscious victim, all the way to the lift. Harry kicked his feet and struggled desperately to get loose. “Zayn, I have to go back. I have to talk to him, ZAYN. I HAVE TO GO BACK!”

He wasn’t expecting Zayn to bodyslam him against the wall. “Listen, Harry. You’re drunk. You’re drunk and you smell like dick and you’re acting crazy and you don’t want to do this right now. He isn’t going to listen to you when you’re a drunken mess no matter what you have to say. Now we’re going to get pizza and Niall is going to meet us and he is going to take you home. I will talk to Lou and see what he wants to do about all this, but until then calm the fuck down and get in the lift.”

*****  
Harry woke up the next afternoon on the couch, Niall sitting on his feet, sipping tea and watching Sky Sports. He groaned and wiggled until he was curled onto one cushion. “What happened?”

“You left the pub and took the tube to Louis’s and made a complete arse of yourself. Cheers.” Niall handed him the cup sat on the coffee table.

“Did he beat me up or something?” His entire body ached and he had no recollection as to why.

“No. That was me.” Zayn appeared from the kitchen. “You were a proper mess last night. Do you honestly not remember anything?”

“I don’t remember anything. I went to yours? I don’t…” Harry scrubbed his hand over his face. “I need to shower.”

“You need to give him time, Harry. You need to let him think about what he wants. But if you really meant what you said?” Zayn gave him a look, tested how much he actually remembered. “Just give him time.”

*****  
Harry bounced on his toes as he tried to lock up the gallery. The snow was starting to fall heavily and he had a long walk home. He jumped when he heard someone behind him clear their throat. He turned around to see Louis standing there, a ball of tin in his hand. “Hi.”

“Oops. Coming or going?” Louis’s hands were shaking. Harry didn’t know if it was the cold or the nerves.

He held up the keys. “Just on my way home. Do you want to come in? I can-“

“I brought you banana nut bread.” Louis shoved it into Harry’s hands. “I don’t know. There was one piece left and it looked pathetic and sad and I thought of you.” His face turned into panic at his words. “That’s not what I meant! I just meant-I-you loved the bread and I thought of you.”

Harry nodded and pulled his bag from his side, produced the grapefruit candle. “It was in the last box. I reckon you’d want it back?” He bit his lip, tried to hide his smile. “Grapefruit.”

“Do you just carry this candle around all the time?” Louis’s eyes softened as he met Harry’s. “Or were you planning on actually returning it? You know, whilst sober and not at 3am.”

“I miss you, Lou. And I meant everything I said. Zayn had to tell me; I couldn’t remember. But I meant it all. I just want you happy. I’m not happy. Are you?”

Louis grabbed one of Harry’s hands, held it up to his own. “Our nail beds would say no.” He gave it a squeeze before he let it go. “I miss you. But I’m not ready yet. I’m still not ready.”

“Okay.” Harry tightened his scarf. “Well. Thanks, you know. For the bread.”

“Why don’t you hold onto this?” Louis handed him the candle back. “I’ll ring you sometime? We can get dinner and you can give it back then.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. See you around, Lou.” He smiled, hoped to convey all his thoughts and hopes with his bright eyes.

Louis turned to head toward the tube station, called over his shoulder. “Bye, Harry.” He didn’t look back.


End file.
